


every little piece

by annundriel



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Scorpio Races AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: It's a very small island.  Jack didn't think he needed more.





	every little piece

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by Maggie Stiefvater's book _The Scorpio Races_ , though it isn't necessary to know anything about the book to follow this story. Basically, Jack lives on an island where water horses are raced. Water horses come from sea and are generally aggressive, making owning and racing them perilous.
> 
> Title from The Editors' "The Weight of the World."

A jingle and then a creak of the floorboards beneath his feet greets Jack as he enters the bakery, followed by the smell of honey and powdered sugar, pastry beneath it all. It’s the first time he’s been in Bittle’s bakery, having been told about it again and again—and again—by Shitty and Ransom and Holster. They hadn’t been able to shut up about Bittle’s mini pies or butter tarts, bringing them every morning to the beach with their thermoses of steaming coffee and their bright enthusiasm.

They’d brought them and Shitty had held the open box out to Jack with a crooked smile. _“Come on, Zimmermann,”_ he’d said. _“You might find you like something other than racing water horses.”_

Frowning, Jack had reached in the box and plucked up one of the tarts. It had still been a little warm, heat seeping into Jack’s chilled fingertips.

 _“He gets up early,”_ Shitty said, mouth full. _“Bakes them first thing.”_

The pastry had crunched in his mouth, then melted against his tongue. Jack remembers closing his eyes, caught in the richness of the tart as it filled his mouth, as he swallowed it down. Despite what Shitty insisted, he had not moaned.

It had been a close thing, though.

So he’s tried Bittle’s food before, tasted the tarts and the pies, the scones and muffins. They’ve been brought to him by his friends and—once—by Bittle himself who sold them at the beach among the other festivities. He’d been windswept and pink with the salt air, smiling at Jack as he held out a coffee— _Black? Well, all right, Mr. Zimmermann, but I don’t know how you do it_ —and muffin with streusel on top. Money had exchanged hands, and Jack hadn’t even stopped to consider how Bittle had known his name.

(He knows the answer to this, of course. Bittle knows his name the same way he knows Bittle’s. The same way everyone knows everyone else’s business. Small town; small island; small world.)

This is the first time he’s been in the shop, though. At first he’d been uninterested—it wasn’t racing—and then he’d been annoyed—it was a _mainlander_ —and now he’s simply intrigued. He’s interacted with Bittle several times since that day, seen him around town. Sometimes they’re at the tavern at the same time, Jack looking for the sound of people to drown out the noise in his head, or dragged there by Shitty and Ransom and Holster. Bittle laughs and smiles and tells stories and listens attentively and there’s something about him that Jack can’t quite put his finger on, something Jack can’t look away from.

“We’re closing soon!” a voice calls from the back, getting louder as footsteps approach. “I probably should’ve locked it but—oh!”

Bittle’s eyes are wide, his hair falling across his forehead. There’s a streak of flour high across his cheekbone.

Jack hunches farther down in his coat, hands curling into fists in his pockets.

“Mr, Zimmermann, what a surprise!” Bittle says, wiping his hands on the towel he carries and stepping behind the display case. It’s almost empty now, only a handful of scones left. “How can I—”

“Jack.”

Bittle blinks. “Pardon?”

“You can call me Jack.” He’s not sure why his heart is racing or why it feels important, but it is and it does.

“Oh. Jack.” Bittle’s lips purse for a moment. It’s not an unkind look; instead, he looks as though he’s tasted something sweet, something to be savored. Jack swallows. “Well. What can I get you, Jack?”

He hadn’t really thought that far ahead and feels himself floundering, heat rising in his cheeks. “I—”

“Why don’t you go ahead and lock that door? It’s just about closing anyway, and I doubt,” he says with a wink, “that I’m going to get any more stragglers. We’re in pretty short supply out here, as you can see, but I’d be happy to whip you up something if you don’t mind keeping me company in the kitchen?”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Hush!” Turning to head back through the doorway he first appeared in, Bittle glances over his shoulder. “I could use the company.”

Jack nods, feeling a little dumbstruck, and locks the door, making sure to flip the sign to ‘Closed’ as well. Stepping behind the counter, he follows Bittle into the kitchen. It’s smaller than he expected, but well cared for. The surfaces are worn, clearly used, clearly loved, and Jack finds Bittle shifting ingredients along the counter.

“Oh,” he says. “I interrupted.”

Bittle scoffs. “Hardly. I was—well. I’ll tell you, but you can’t laugh, Mr. Zimm—Jack.” He flushes, glancing at Jack and then back at the counter. “When I visited the island before, the first time, I had November cakes? They were…Oh, they were _something_. And I know it’s kind of a traditional thing around here, but I’ve never made them so I thought I would…” He shrugs, trailing off. “Try?”

Jack knows he’s staring—he’s been told by Shitty repeatedly to stop making people nervous—but he can’t seem to stop himself. The fact that Bittle had been a mainlander, a usurper, on their little island had stuck in his side like a thorn. He hadn’t belonged, and Jack had been resentful at him trying, too.

But here Bittle is, flour on his cheek and a furrow on his brow, doing his best to honor tradition.

Jack swallows, shifting next to the counter. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Bittle startles a little, as though he’s been lost in thought himself, and smiles up at Jack for a moment before his face turns horrified. “Where are my manners?” he says, shaking his head and moving to grab two mugs from the cupboard. He nods at some wooden pegs by the back door. “Hang up your coat, take a seat. I’ll get you some coffee.”

Jack does as he’s told and sits at the table tucked in the corner. His heart thuds when Bittle puts a mug in front of him, and he feels both at ease and on edge as Bittle pours him a cup.

“Black,” Bittle says, looking. “No cream or sugar. See? I remember.”

Lifting his cup to take a sip, Jack tucks his smile behind the rim. He’s pretty sure Bittle sees it anyway.

“Now these,” Bittle says, plating some muffins Jack didn’t even notice cooling beside the stove. “These I was saving for my own self, but I’m happy to share them with you.”

They look amazing and taste even better, though Jack keeps getting distracted by the occasional bump of Bittle’s knee against his beneath the table. He can’t stop staring at the pink flick of Bittle’s tongue as he sweeps crumbs from his bottom lip or the way his eyelashes—impossibly long—shadow his cheeks, the way his eyes glow golden-brown in the light of the kitchen.

Somewhere deep in his chest, Jack feels something loosen, thawing like the earth in spring. There is the seed of something here, ready to sprout if he’ll let it.

He watches Bittle and drinks his coffee, answering Bittle’s questions about what flavors he likes best as Bittle smiles at him across the table. Bittle nods and _hmms_ and before long he’s up and baking Jack butter tarts.

And Jack? Jack leaves later with a box in his hand and a smile on his face, Bitty’s— _Please, you can call me Bitty_ —name on his lips.

~

It becomes routine, visiting Bittle at the shop as he’s closing. At first Jack only shows up once or twice a week, and then—gradually—it’s every other day. Then more days than not. Jack wouldn’t say he’s lonely out at his cottage; he likes the quiet of being away from town, the way most people know not to bother him too much, but walking past the bakery in the evening with its golden light and sweet smells, with Bittle bustling behind the counter with his towel and flour-dusted cheeks makes something in Jack’s chest ache.

The way Bittle looks up at him through the glass, face lighting up, turns that ache into something entirely different.

It’s been a long time since Jack felt something tug at him quite like that. If it ever has.

Most nights they stay in the kitchen downstairs. Bittle always has coffee ready for Jack, though sometimes he offers cocoa as well. It’s rich and thick on Jack’s tongue, hints of cinnamon and other flavors he can’t quite taste mixed in. The first time he takes a sip it makes him pause, eyes closing as he savors it on his tongue. When he opens his eyes again, Bittle’s face has gone soft and pleased, glowing like the last vestiges of sun before it sinks beneath the horizon out across the sea.

Jack flushes. “It’s good.”

“I’m glad you like it, Jack. Now, how about a slice of…”

Jack watches Bittle, that slim figure, the way he moves with confidence and certainty. He is the master of his world, and Jack is only a privileged guest.

Bittle lives above the bakery in a comfortable set of rooms that can only be reached by a narrow staircase that creaks beneath Jack’s weight. Bittle warns him to duck the first time he invites him up. Jack appreciates it, though he forgets the first time he leaves. It’s almost worth the slight pain to see the way Bittle’s hand flies to cover his mouth which can’t quite seem to decide on amused or horrified and lands somewhere in the middle.

Jack likes the nights Bittle invites him up. The rooms are cozy, and Bittle’s painted them in soft colors; buttery yellows and foggy greys and blues, a color that’s almost white; Jack has a feeling, deep in his gut, it’s called _eggshell_. They remind him of Bittle himself, and Jack can only imagine what the apartment looks like in the morning, bright and sunny as Bittle rubs at his eyes and makes breakfast.

On those nights, though, Bittle makes dinner. Simple things like sandwiches and soup, pasta, baked chicken and potatoes. They talk, Jack learning more about Bittle’s childhood, his love of food, his attraction to the island. Jack finds himself telling Bittle about his own roots, his parents, his need to stay here. His water horse, Puck. Bittle is a good listener, and the more he listens, the more Jack talks. The more Jack’s shoulders relax and he finds himself leaning back in his chair and laughing as Bittle regales him with stories of the South.

He always leaves Bittle feeling warm, as though he’s carrying an ember of Bittle with him, something to warm his hands and heart against. The feeling lasts through the walk home, his routine around the cottage before bed, and into the next morning. Midday it begins to dissipate and that’s why, without fail, he always ends up back at Bittle’s as the sun dips low.

When Bittle sees him to the back door after one of these dinners, Jack pauses in the doorway. Turning, he asks, “Would you like to come to my place tomorrow? I’d like to make you dinner.”

Bittle smiles. “I’d love that, Jack.”

“I live out by—”

Bittle laughs. “I know where you live. It’s a very small island.”

Jack chuckles and nods, his cheeks feeling warm, and walks home carrying that feeling with him.

~

Before his parents left the island, Jack’s mother taught him how to cook.

No, that isn’t quite right. She taught him how to cook stew and make biscuits, and that was the extent of her skills and his. Everything else had been easy; baked potatoes, steak, pasta. Jack boils water like a professional, and can feed himself adequately.

As evening nears the following day, he can’t stop pacing. Bittle is a cook, a baker. Bittle knows his way around the kitchen. He’ll recognize Jack’s mediocre attempt as—

As what? Jack makes himself breathe and heads to the bathroom to take a quick shower. Bittle will take his mediocre attempt as the genuine gesture it is, Jack knows this. If he has learned anything in the past weeks, it is that there is nothing cruel about Eric Bittle, not really. He glowers and swats at crumbs and curses Mrs. O’Malley down the road, but then he smiles at Jack like it’s a secret, this mood, and Jack watches it pass like clouds chased by the sun.

Jack washes quickly, rinses even more quickly. Shaves and dresses and combs his hair back. Straightens his cuffs.

He checks the stew.

He straightens his cuffs again.

Nerves wind him tight, and Jack isn’t sure why. It’s just Bittle, he tells himself. Bittle with his smile and his warm eyes, Bittle with his laugh. Bittle with his cakes and scones, his muffins, his pies. The flour and cinnamon and sugar smell that follows him everywhere.

Jack wipes his hands on his thighs and when there’s a knock on the door, he answers it.

Bittle glows on his front step. He’s wearing a jacket and a bow tie and his hair is combed just so. In his hands he carries a blue box tied with a ribbon and when his eyes meet Jack’s, he smiles and holds it out.

“A good guest never arrives empty handed.”

The smile fills Jack with warmth even as the sides of the box warm the tips of his fingers. “What is it?” he asks, stepping back to let Bittle in.

Bittle’s eyes are wide as he enters, taking in Jack’s cottage. Jack can’t tell if he’s surprised or simply…curious, but his eyes dart around the front room, taking in the couch and armchairs, the photographs on the mantle, the art on the walls.

“Dessert,” Bittle says, stepping over to the seascape that hangs on the wall just outside of the kitchen. It shows the beach at dawn—Jack knows it’s dawn because he knows its history—with the sun rising over the waves, turning the light liquid and golden. There’s a rider on the beach atop a water horse, hooves throwing up surf. “This is incredible. Did you—?”

Shaking his head, Jack steps next to Bittle. “The paintings are my mother’s.” He swallows, fingers shifting on the box. “The photographs are mine.”

Bittle turns to look at him, and Jack is struck by the smudge of his eyelashes, the soft pink bow of his mouth, the gold in his hair that catches the light. He wishes for his camera then; to capture Bittle’s surprise, the unassuming beauty of him, yes, but also to give himself some distance.

 _Don’t be afraid to participate in life_ , his father had told him once, years ago when he’d first received the camera. Back when he hadn’t been old enough to race. _Document it, but don’t forget to live it_.

Jack swallows now, gestures with the box. “Dinner’s not quite ready. Let me put this down and I can…I can show you some, if you like?”

Bittle’s smile is sweet as the pastries he sells. “I’d like that.”

Stepping into the kitchen, Jack sets the box on the counter before checking the stew again. His heart thuds in his chest, and for a moment he simply stands there breathing in the thick smell of the stew, the flaky crust of the biscuits. Then he turns, moving to find that Bittle is in front of the fireplace now, hands clasped behind his back as he tilts his head and examines the pictures there.

Jack joins him, tells him about each picture as Bittle points to them; the last horse his father rode, the first horse Jack rode, his mother laughing in the garden, Shitty after he shaved his moustache off on a dare, Shitty and Ransom and Holster grinning bright and wide on a cliff over the sea. Bittle looks at each picture and asks Jack about them, nodding and smiling—laughing, even, when Jack talks about Shitty. (“Mr. Knight sure is a character,” he says, and Jack can’t help but nod and chuckle. He is, indeed.) Bittle listens, and Jack feels at ease instead of less with each word that passes his lips.

It’s a novel feeling. He could get used to this.

They make the circuit of the room, Bittle asking about the pictures and the paintings, and Jack finds himself wanting to share. He looks at Bittle, who looks at him with curious eyes and an encouraging smile, and the stories just appear there in the air between them for Jack to pluck and share.

They’re almost to the kitchen when Bittle laughs, a small huff of breath that makes the pads of Jack’s fingers itch.

“What?”

Bittle shrugs. He tugs at the cuffs of his shirt where they peek from beneath his jacket. “Nothing,” he says, eyes averted. “Nothing.” He looks up at Jack through his eyelashes, and Jack’s caught again by the shifting warmth of his eyes. “Just…I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk so much at once?”

Heat rises in Jack’s cheeks. He could be embarrassed, with anyone else he might be embarrassed. But this is Bittle, Bitty, and all Jack can do is shrug and let himself smile softly back. “You make it easy.”

It’s Bittle’s turn to blush, and he does, pink rising in his cheeks and slipping down his face and along his jaw. Jack wonders how low it goes, if Bittle’s chest flushes as prettily as his face.

“I’m glad.”

They stand there for a moment, the silence rising between them. It’s comfortable, amazingly, in a way it isn’t even really with Shitty and Ransom and Holster. With them, their silence has a purpose, a focus, or they’re not silent at all. The three of them jostle and talk and yell, cheer and holler, they tease and laugh. They surround Jack with boisterous energy he can fold himself into.

This silence with Bittle is a new animal entirely. It’s soft—warm at the edges. Safe. Jack thinks about standing on the bluff and watching boats come into the bay after their day’s—or weeks’ work—and wonders if this is how the people on those decks feel, like they’ve found a port, a harbor, a haven.

Jack’s chest aches.

They eat at the table in the kitchen. The linen is embroidered with bluets at the corners, their pale blue petals trailing and tumbling along the edges. It’s an heirloom, and Jack hardly ever uses it. But he’d wanted something on the table instead of his lonely placemat, the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar bowl. The cottage is lived in, but the kitchen has always been utilitarian. Bittle makes him want it to be more.

Bittle hums over the stew, warming his fingertips on the rounded sides of the bowl— _”I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this weather. You sure this is summer?_ —and thanking Jack for the biscuit. Jack does his best to hide it, but it’s the biscuit he’s worried about. He would probably be less worried if Bittle didn’t own a bakery; as it is, he’s sure he almost stares a hole through Bittle when he takes his first bite.

The sound Bittle makes leaves Jack’s fingers digging into his thigh beneath the table.

“Oh my goodness,” Bittle says, licking crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “Jack! I’m going to have to put you to work when you visit now.”

Jack’s cheeks warm. He takes a bite of his stew. “An ulterior motive for keeping me around, eh? And here I thought I was only good for reaching the top shelf.”

Bittle laughs, musical and tumbling. The delight in it is infectious. “Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle says, “you keep that up and I won’t have you back at all.”

Jack looks up at him then, takes in the color on his cheeks and the light in his eyes, the tilt of his head and the way his fingers curl around the spoon. Bittle’s jacket is on the back of his chair, and Jack can see the delicate knobs of his wrists where his cuffs have ridden up. He wants to touch him, to reach out and feel the tender skin over the flutter of Bittle’s pulse. Wants to know if he tastes as good as the smell that wafts after him, sugar and cinnamon and flour.

“I think we both know that’s a lie.”

The laughter dies away as Bittle looks at him, but the mood doesn’t. There’s joy in the air of Jack’s kitchen, and the curve of Bittle’s mouth is sweet as he meets Jack’s gaze.

“Do we,” he says. It isn’t a question. The nudge of his foot against Jack’s might be an answer.

~

The box, it turns out, contains pie. Apple with a maple crust, Bittle explains. An experiment he thought he’d try after Jack had moaned over the maple cookies Bittle had baked the week before. When Jack insists he didn’t moan, Bittle smiles at him and says, “You keep telling yourself that, Mr. Zimmermann.”

His cheeks are pink.

Jack thinks he is delightful.

They warm the pie in the oven on Bittle’s insistence. Bittle helps Jack with the dishes, also on Bittle’s insistence. Jack has to admit it’s nice, though, standing at the kitchen sink with Bittle at his side, towel ready to dry as Jack washes. He’s warm, and they keep bumping elbows. Once—when Jack has raised an eyebrow in disbelief at Bittle’s story involving jam, his mother, and his aunt—Jack even gets hip checked.

The pie is delicious, and Jack definitely does moan, he won’t try to deny this one. Bittle looks pleased, flustered slightly at the edges. Between them, they eat half of it.

And then it’s time to walk Bittle home. There’s some argument— _Jack, I’m an adult_ and _But who will walk you home?_ make appearances—but Jack is insistent. He doesn’t want the night to end, but he knows Bittle keeps himself to a tight schedule. He does himself as well, most days. So he walks Bittle home, hands tucked deep in his pockets as Bittle gesticulates next to him, smiling in the moonlight.

It’s a shorter walk than Jack would like, actually, and before he knows it, they’re at the back of the bakery. He watches Bittle pull his keys out, hands certain on the lock. The door opens, and Bittle turns to him with an eyebrow raised.

“Well now I have to invite you in for coffee,” he says. “Or cocoa. Your preference.”

Jack should go. He knows he should go.

He wants to stay.

“Are you going to insist on walking me home if I say yes?”

Bittle laughs, and Jack’s heart trips.

“If people ask why I’m so tired tomorrow morning, I’ll have to tell them it was because Jack Zimmermann kept insisting on walking me home. But please,” Bittle says, voice going soft. “I’d love to make you a cup? As thank you, at least.”

How can Jack resist? He nods, doing his best to ignore the spike of something in his chest at the idea of anyone—of everyone—knowing his business with Bittle. It’s not like they don’t already, or haven’t guessed. It’s just that Jack wants to keep this fledgling flame he feels deep inside him safe, sheltered from all eyes and the harsh wind that blows in off the sea. He is not ready to share it yet.

The apartment above the bakery is cozy, the lights Bittle turns on keeping the dark at bay behind the window panes. Jack sits at his kitchen counter and drinks cocoa that Bittle insists on adding cinnamon and whipped cream to. He sits and he drinks and he grins wide when Bittle ends up with whipped cream on the tip of his nose. Forces himself to keep his hands away and then, because he can’t think of any reason to keep doing that, let’s himself reach out.

Bittle’s cheek is smooth against his fingertips, his breath a startled huff against the heel of Jack’s hand. Jack knows Bittle’s eyes have gone impossibly wide, but he can’t quite meet them. Can only focus on the end of Bittle’s nose, the smidgen of cream there. His eyes have gone wide, and when Jack has swiped the cream away, when he has worked up the courage to ignore his rabbiting heart, he finds that he’s right. (Of course he’s right.)

Jack can’t look away.

The consolation is, perhaps, that neither can Bittle.

There is whipped cream on his thumb. Jack wipes it on his sleeve.

They don’t talk about it.

When Jack leaves, he remembers to duck his head in the stairwell. Bittle follows him down, two steps behind and then one when Jack reaches the bakery’s kitchen. He stands there on the tile, looks at Bittle standing on the last step. They’re more of a height like this, eye to eye and nose to nose, mouth to—

Jack’s eyes flicker up to Bittle’s as Bittle’s flicker up to his.

 _Well_ , Jack thinks.

Bittle’s mouth against his is still warm from the cocoa. He smells like chocolate and whipped cream and cinnamon. His lips are soft and sweet and when he gasps, the tip of Jack’s tongue brushes his and Jack shivers, stepping closer.

He doesn’t remember reaching for Bittle, how his hands ended up on Bittle’s waist or how Bittle’s ended up on his cheek. Pulling away, Jack turns into that touch, nuzzles at the palm of Bittle’s hand.

“Bitty,” he says, voice gone low and rough. He looks at Bittle, then, and Bittle looks back, eyes slightly dazed. It makes Jack smile before pressing a kiss to Bittle’s palm. “Good night.”

Jack makes it as far as the back alley before he hears the door open behind him and Bittle’s voice calling out.

“Jack?”

He pauses, hands in his pockets and heart in his throat. Swallowing, Jack turns to find Bittle standing in the door way, hand on the doorknob and shoulder against the doorjamb, hip cocked. The light behind Bittle turns him into a silhouette, makes his face hard to see in the night. His own face, by contrast, is there in the golden rectangle of light spilling from Bittle’s door.

“Yeah?” Jack asks.

“Stay.”

It isn’t a question. It might be an answer.

Jack looks at Bittle and Bittle looks at him and Jack can still feel the tips of Bittle’s fingers against his cheek, the weight of Bittle’s hand on his shoulder. Can remember the exact width of Bittle’s hips beneath his palms. He wants to know the difference the loss of layers makes, to feel Bittle’s skin soft beneath his thumbs, to touch the pale, summer-freckled skin of him.

He takes a step forward, then another. “That would solve one of our problems.”

Bittle’s head tilts to the side.

“No one has to walk anyone home.”

He’s in front of Bittle now, a step below again. Bittle’s smile is incandescent, rivaling the lighthouse on the other end of the island. Jack wants desperately to let it guide him home.

“True enough, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle says. “Please, come back in.”

Brushing past Bittle, Jack comes back in. He stands by the counter, waiting as Bittle closes the door and locks it. Jack’s palms itch, his hands eager to press against the naked planes of Bittle’s chest, the wings of his shoulder blades. The finely muscled limbs of him.

He’s only ever seen Bittle’s forearms before, distracted by the quick surety of Bittle’s fingers as he undoes his cuffs and rolls them backward, out of the way. His eyes have lingered at the hollow of his throat, delicate and soft looking at his collar. A kiss dropped just there, he thinks, would be enough to undo them both. He’s eager to see the bow tie removed, to see if he’s correct.

Lights off save for one just inside the door, Bittle smiles at Jack and leads him up the stairs. Jack only just remembers to lower his head, he’s so distracted by the line of Bittle’s back and legs in front of him, the curve of his ass. At the top, Bittle turns to look at him over his shoulder. His eyes are dark and full of heat; Jack wants to wrap his arms around him, never let him go. He’s not sure where this feeling has come from, only that it’s been building daily since he first stepped foot in Bittle’s shop, each overlap of their existence making Jack feel the pull of Bittle’s particular gravity more acutely.

Jack’s been adrift alone for so long, only Puck to concern himself with.

He wants Bittle.

“Bitty,” he says, and Bittle turns to him, takes him into his arms, his home. Something settles in Jack’s bones.

Bittle is firm against him, hands spreading against the small of Jack’s back, smoothing up and down as he pulls Jack close, face tipped up to meet Jacks as Jack fits their mouths together in the quiet of Bittle’s apartment. Blood rushes in his ears, and he’s hyperaware of the catch of Bittle’s breath against his upper lip, the way Bittle’s fingers twitch in the fabric of his jacket.

“Jack,” Bittle says, a secret between them. “You don’t…When I asked you to stay, I didn’t mean…We don’t have to—”

Mid-syllable, Bittle has no defenses. The tip of Jack’s tongue brushes against his, curls to draw him out, invite him in. Bittle’s hands on his back turn into fists that grip at him, and Jack pulls away with a gasp.

Jack says, “I know. I want—” _So much. So many things. This. You_. “To stay. I want to stay. Whatever that means.”

It turns out it means Bittle’s hands sliding from Jack’s back to his front, pressing against his chest and slipping beneath his jacket as they move up and up to push it over his shoulders and down his arms. It means Bittle draping it over the edge of his sofa, the look on his face gone soft and expectant as he turns back to Jack, as he tangles their fingers together between them. As he tugs Jack past the coffee table and overstuffed chair by the window, the bookcase in the corner, past all the bits and bobs that make up Bittle’s home and into the bedroom Jack’s only seen in glimpses through a door half-closed.

It means Bittle nudging him to sit on the bed as he moves to turn on the bedside lamp then stepping into the space made between them for Bittle, only for Bittle, and breathing deeply when Bittle’s hands settle on his shoulders. His own find their way to Bittle’s hips again.

“Is this okay?” Bittle’s voice is hushed, and Jack can’t look away from the sweep of his eyelashes or the flush of pink suffusing his skin. There are freckles across the bridge of his nose, faded and light.

Jack leans in, presses a kiss to the curve of one cheek. Pulls away just enough to move to the other, press a matching one there. “Yes,” he says. “More than.”

The corners of Bittle’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. Jack can feel the heat of him everywhere they touch—his hands, his shoulders, the insides of his thighs—and everywhere they don’t.

When Bittle kisses him, hands smoothing from Jack’s shoulder to his neck, Jack loses track of time, of everything that isn’t the sweet press and retreat of Bittle’s lips and teeth and tongue. There is no hurry here, only languid desire, a fire banked. Bittle kisses him, and Jack keeps his hands on his hips, sighs when Bittle’s tongue brushes his own, parting his lips and letting Bittle in. He finds he likes the way Bittle feels against him, the way he fits just so between Jack’s thighs. The way his bottom lip fits—just so—between both of Jack’s.

Pulling almost without thought, Jack has Bittle’s shirt tails free as Bittle’s fingers thread through his hair. The small of Bittle’s back is soft and smooth; touching it with his fingertips, Jack can imagine each place he’d like to put his mouth, the trails he’d like to follow up and down.

Bittle sighs against him.

There are fingers on buttons then, fingers on ties. Shoes are toed off and kicked away to a corner. Every inch of Bittle’s revealed skin is pale and perfect and Bittle has to shoo Jack away with a laugh gone breathless and throaty.

“Jack,” he says. “Jack, _wait_. As much as I’m enjoying this, I’d like my shirt off now and yours off _yesterday_.”

Jack quirks an eyebrow at him. “Yesterday, huh?” Yesterday he’d been in Bittle’s apartment, he’d sat at his table and eaten dinner with him. They’d been so close to this and so far. Jack had worn flannel, the sleeves beginning to thin at the elbows, and Bittle had wanted it on the floor. Jack chuckles. “Should have said something.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Mr. Zimmermann, and—oh!”

Jack was right about the hollow of Bittle’s throat.

It’s difficult to get Bittle’s buttons undone when he’s distracted by the line of Bittle’s throat, but Jack manages it. The shirt ends up on Bittle’s floor and then Bittle is on him, hands tugging at Jack’s shirt, and Jack is laughing and light and breathless already.

When Bittle manages to get Jack’s shirt off, he pauses, mouth caught in a pink _O_.

Jack feels himself blush.

“You’re…I mean. I knew you were…” He reaches out fingers tentative on the rise of Jack’s pectoral, nails scratching lightly through the smattering of hair on his chest. Jack shivers, and Bittle’s eyes rise to meet his. “I always wondered what was under all of that flannel.”

“Always?”

Bittle nods. “For longer than I should’ve, probably.” He leans in, a whisper. Another secret caught between the two of them. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

Charmed, Jack is charmed. He reaches out, runs his knuckles over the jut of Bittle’s hip. Shirtless, he is as finely made as Jack expected; smooth skin and muscle. He glows in the golden light from the bedside lamp and shivers in kind at Jack’s touch. “I’ve liked you for a while, too.”

A kiss, another. Bittle sweet against his lips and a shift in the air as Jack’s fingers work Bittle’s belt and pants open, as Bittle returns the favor. They stand—pants gone and socks removed—and Jack’s heart pounds in his chest. He slips his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underwear, bends and slides them off. Straightens and waits for Bittle to do the same, and then it is just the two of them, nothing but space between.

Bittle is beautiful. Jack would follow him anywhere.

He follows him now to his bed where Bittle folds back the sheets, where Bittle lies on his side and looks up at him. The curve of his body, the curve of his lips; invitations Jack aches to accept. He kneels on the mattress, lowers himself to his side. Curls toward Bittle. He looks—and looks and looks—before reaching out to brush the curl of hair at Bittle’s temple, following it down behind the shell of his ear. Everything about Bittle is soft, and Jack’s hand shakes as he touches him, following the curve of his shoulder to his bicep, his chest. His waist. He touches Bittle with careful fingers, reverent fingers, and wants and wants and—

Bittle’s fingers on his wrist are sure, and when he moves Jack’s hand to his hip, he presses it there firmly.

“Jack,” he says, a light in his eyes. “Jack. I’m not going to break.”

Jack shudders, his fingers twitching. It’s been so long since he’s wanted anything but his home and Puck and the island, since he wanted anyone. Did he ever want anyone like this? The ache in his bones feels foreign. Cleansing. He would remember it, if he’d felt it before. He licks his lips and nods. “I know.”

Bittle trails his touch up Jack’s forearm, past his elbow and shoulder. His hand curls against Jack’s neck. “I’m really here.”

Another nod. “I know.”

“Do you?”

He does. He knows Bittle is there, golden and smiling. It’s himself he doubts. Jack looks at Bittle and he _wants_. He touches Bittle, and something inside of him feels cracked open, spilling between his ribs. He does not know what to do with this feeling now that he’s here in Bittle’s bed, Bittle’s hip curving beneath his palm. Each step, each moment, has felt inevitable. Now—here—what is he to do?

“Jack,” Bittle says, and then he’s closing the distance between them and Jack is breathing a sigh of relief because yes, yes, the language of action has always been easy even if that of touch is still foreign. Bittle moves, and Jack moves with him, lets himself be pushed onto his back as Bittle curves above him, pressing him into soft pillows that smell like Bittle.

Jack goes, and goes easily, keeps his hand on Bittle’s hips and his eyes on Bittle’s mouth. Sighs against those lips when they meet his own. Opens himself up and invites Bittle in with a curl of his tongue and a shift of his hips that bring them even closer together. The head of Bittle’s cock brushing his skin makes Jack tighten his grip. Jack can feel Bittle’s smile against his mouth before Bittle pulls away.

His gaze is full of something that looks a lot like joy. Jack put that look on his face. _Jack_ did that. All this time Bittle was filling Jack up with hope, and here it is plain as day on Bittle’s face.

With his free hand, Jack touches the edge of that joy, follows the kiss-swollen curve of Bittle’s bottom lip. Bittle’s eyelashes dip, his breath stuttering between them, and then he’s leaning in as Jack’s hands slips to the back of his head, as Jack’s nails scritch against his hair. As Jack cradles him close and kisses him deep, the both of them throwing themselves off whatever precipice they’ve been clinging to.

Everything is transmuted, awkward movements turned certain by the slow drag of time. There is the surety of fingers and palms, the slip of lips and tongue, of Bittle’s weight across his hips, Bittle’s knees against his sides. Their cocks slide together, skin against skin, and Jack breathes Bittle in, breathes everything else out. He touches the small of Bittle’s back and the wings of his shoulder blades, the line of his spine.

Bittle moves above him, hands on Jack’s chest, fingers at his nipples, trailing down down down to his navel, the line of hair leading lower. He grips the base of Jack’s cock and kisses Jack slowly and this is Jack’s undoing, this slow roll of pleasure after so long without. He pushes up into Bittle’s kiss, his hand, pushes up and rolls them until Bittle is the one gasping against his sheets, eyes wide and mouth pink.

“Jack,” he breathes. “Jack, please, I—”

Nodding, Jack tucks his face against the sweet curve of Bittle’s neck, tastes the skin there. Hitches their hips together. Bittle’s wrapped around him, everywhere, and Jack breathes and breathes and when he comes it’s to the sound of his name on Bittle’s tongue, the feel of Bittle holding him close. Of Bittle shaking apart beneath him.

They breathe together after. Jack’s not sure how long he stays there, Bittle’s hands caressing his back. But then Bittle laughs, a hiccup of sound, and he’s pushing at Jack’s shoulders until Jack is looking down at him.

He’s perfect. Skin flushed and sweaty, bangs falling across his forehead. Jack tries to remember to breathe; it was so much easier a moment ago.

“Bitty,” he says, “you’re—” He doesn’t have the words. He shakes his head, kisses Bittle instead.

Bittle’s lips against his are lazy and certain, the pull of the tide.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Bittle says.

Jack feels like he’s just woken up.

~

They talk for a while after that, voices hushed as though they’re trading secrets across the downy rise of Bittle’s pillows though there’s nothing more shocking than the revelation that Bittle doesn’t know how to swim ( _”But you live on an island?” “Now I do!”_ ) and that Jack doesn’t mind instant coffee ( _”You heathen!” “It’s fast?”_ ).

Jack promises to teach Bittle how to swim.

Bittle threatens to dispose of all of his coffee.

They fall asleep with their limbs tangled. Bittle’s toes, it turns out, are almost perpetually cold. Jack doesn’t mind so much.

~

When Jack opens his eyes again, he can tell it’s early morning by a certain lightening at Bittle’s curtains and the way Bittle’s hand flops at his arm where it’s wrapped around Bittle’s waist.

Bittle voice comes out sleep-rough and low. “Stay,” he says. “If you can. Stay. I only need to get the dough started and then—” A yawn. “And then I’ll be back.”

Jack nods, hums his agreement. He’s tempted to follow Bittle down to watch him work his magic in the pre-dawn bakery. He chooses the bed instead, the sheets that carry the warmth of them both and the smell of Bittle’s hair. With Bittle gone, Jack stretches, toes slipping off the end of the mattress as he rolls onto his stomach, the pillow in his arms soft against his cheek. He could stay here all day.

The thought is nice, anyway, even if it can’t be reality. He has obligations, Puck to care for at home. Shitty and Ransom and Holster to meet.

But after, later, he could come back. He could arrive like he always does, just before closing, and help Bittle lock up. Follow him up his creaky stairs to his kitchen. Eat with their knees knocking at his table. Kiss Bittle against his counter, on his sofa, against the bedroom door. He can have this.

Jack dozes for a while, and when he resurfaces, Bittle is crawling back under the sheets, nudging him over with cold elbows and cold feet. Jack groans and makes plans to buy Bittle better socks, but then he’s pulling Bittle to him, pressing Bittle between himself and the mattress, pressing hot fingers against all of Bittle’s cold spots. Bittle laughs and squirms which only leads to Jack’s fingers moving farther afield to find other spots that make Bittle laugh or groan or sigh.

It’s a good morning.

When they get up, Bittle makes them “real coffee, Jack Zimmermann,” pouring sugar and cream in his own after he hands Jack a cup. The mug is warm between Jack’s palms, the coffee just the right temperature as he sips it. He watches Bittle put the pot back and feels something in his chest settle. Sleepy-eyed, his hair rumpled, Bittle looks like Jack feels, slow and tender in the light slipping through the windows. He makes them oatmeal and traces the outside of Jack’s foot with his toes underneath the kitchen table.

Jack tangles their fingers together.

In the bakery, he rolls up his sleeves—aware of the way Bittle watches the flex of his forearms—and says, only, “Where do you want me?”

Bittle blinks at him for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth twitches in such a way that makes Jack want to ask him what he’s thinking, to say, _Yes, yes, whatever you want_. But then Bittle’s smile is gone and his brow furrows.

“What about Puck?”

Puck will need feeding, it’s true, but not until later. He tells Bittle so. Promises he can stay for now. He’ll head home when Bittle’s ready to open, feed Puck, take care of some chores. Take Puck out on the beach. He gets distracted, briefly, by thoughts of Bittle riding with him, Bittle tucked between his thighs and arms, against his chest. Bittle’s hair would tickle his nose. Or Bittle would ride behind him, arms strong around Jack, the heat of his thighs slipping through the layers of their clothes.

“Jack?”

He blinks at Bittle, who smirks at him across the counter, lips pressed together like he knows something Jack doesn’t.

“I’m…sorry?”

Bittle laughs, and Jack wants to touch him. Can’t think of a single reason not to. He moves around the counter, presses a palm to the curve of Bittle’s neck.

“Are you laughing at me?”

Eyes wide, Bittle looks up at him, a flush across the tops of his cheeks. “Not at all,” he says. Then, “A little.”

“Mmm,” Jack hums. Leaning in, he kisses Bittle, mouth soft.

One of Bittle’s hands is fisted in the front of Jack’s shirt. “You seemed distracted.”

Jack pulls back to take in the fall of Bittle’s bangs, the curl of his eyelashes. The particular warmth of his eyes. “I was thinking.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhmm.”

Bittle looks at him expectantly. Jack lets him, happy to play slow when the light in the kitchen is this perfect, falling across Bittle’s face, haloing his hair. His eyelashes are ridiculous, and his mouth…oh, his mouth. Jack leans in and kisses him. It’s soft and sweet and something worth waking up every day for until Bittle chuckles and pulls away.

“You said you were thinking!” Bittle chides. “I’m hoping about more than that.”

“Tired of me already, Bittle?”

He rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth tipping upward. “Hardly. But I’m curious about what had you distracted in my kitchen.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, laughing when Bittle huffs and swats at him, slipping out of his grip with a mutter and a groan and a, “Now _I’m_ distracted in my kitchen,” that makes Jack laugh harder.

After a moment it passes, and he leans against the counter, arms folded. Feels strangely nervous all things considered. “I was thinking,” he says, “that maybe you and Puck should meet.”

~

The stable is old, built by Jack’s father and grandfather. There are three stalls, and an open area for hay. There’s only one horse these days, but Puck’s all that Jack needs. From the stall furthest from the door, Puck gives him an accusatory look.

“Hey, boy.” Jack shuts the door gently behind him, hands slipping into his pockets as he crosses the worn stone floor. “Late night,” he says. Then, “Early morning. I didn’t forget about you.”

The breath Puck huffs is low, rumbling like thunder in his broad chest. Jack grins at him and presses a hand to his forehead.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you fed. We’ve got a big day.”

He goes to the fridge in the corner, pulling out the cuts of raw meat he knows Puck prefers, an apology of sorts. He hadn’t meant to linger at Bittle’s, but the warmth of the kitchen, of Bittle himself, had been irresistible. _Next time_ , Jack thinks. Next time there could be dinner at his table again and Bittle smiling at him from Jack’s sofa, music playing quiet in the background. Bittle in his bed, laughing and beautiful. Then Bittle would have to leave in the morning, and Jack’s the one who would be left with sheets that smell like the both of them wrapped up together.

Jack shakes himself when Puck nudges his elbow, blushing even there’s only Puck to see him, and leaves Puck with fresh water and the promise of a ride soon. He wanders back into the house and, door shut behind him, Jack leans back, takes in the familiar photographs and paintings, the bootjack by the door, the afghan folded over the couch. The smell of last night’s dinner lingers in the air. Jack’s heart thuds in his chest, and he grins. He grins and he grins and he wraps his arms around himself, trying to contain the feeling that’s bubbling up inside of him. The happiness is too large to be contained, and Jack laughs, presses his fingers to his mouth and remembers Bittle’s fingers there instead, Bittle’s mouth. Bittle’s teeth and tongue. Any time today—tomorrow, next week—he could head back into town, slip into Bittle’s shop, feel those hands and that mouth against him again.

He’s sorely tempted to turn back now and spend the day in Bittle’s kitchen, watching him mix and knead, watching him bend and pull all manner of treats from his ovens. Jack has been thirsty for so long; Bittle is a wellspring before him.

Patience wins the day. Patience and focus. Jack turns his mind to putting the dishes from the night before away. He folds the tablecloth and tucks it in the bottom drawer of the armoire in the room that had been his parents’. The house tidied away, he takes Puck out for a run around the cove near his house. When he’s finished—blood pounding in his veins as well as Puck’s—he turns back toward the uphill path only to find Shitty leaning against a rock near the base of the path, hands shoved in his pockets, face turned toward the sun. When they approach, Shitty turns and grins at him.

“Jack! You didn’t meet us for breakfast this morning! Am I to hope you were otherwise engaged?”

Jack bites back a smile and looks out over the sea. He runs a hand down the side of Puck’s neck. “I don’t kiss and tell, Shitty.”

Shitty’s grin widens. “That means there’s something to tell! No one ever says that if there isn’t, Zimmermann, so don’t even try to deny it.”

He could try. On an island this small, he maybe even should try. But Shitty is his best friend, and Bittle is…He isn’t sure what Bittle is exactly yet, but he has his hopes. Jack shakes his head and dismounts, Puck’s reins in his hand. “Come on, Shitty. I’ll make coffee.”

The walk back to the house is filled with Shitty’s usual exuberance. He talks about Ransom and Holster, the fence he’s been helping them repair on their own bit of land. His hands wave as he talks, filling the air between them, and Jack smiles as he watches Shitty, feels light and happy, at ease here with his friend and his horse on his island. Knowing that in town, Bittle is baking and talking to customers, smiling when the bell above the door chimes, laughing when children with sticky fingers thank him for jam tarts and jelly rolls.

When they reach the house, Jack takes care of Puck, waters and untacks him. Shitty watches him go about his work, silent where he leans against the door to the stable. Jack feels his eyes on him and waits for him to say something.

“You’re different this morning, Jack.”

“Hmm?”

Shitty shifts, and Jack glances up to find Shitty’s gaze contemplative, a slight frown between his eyebrows like he’s trying to figure Jack out again despite how long they’ve been friends. Jack lets him look, grooming Puck until he’s satisfied, thinking all the while that later— _later_ —Bittle will meet Puck for the first time. When he’s done, Shitty follows him to the house, into the kitchen. He sits where Bittle sat the night before as Jack sets coffee brewing. “You’ve always been quiet—”

“Wouldn’t have to be if I could get a word in edgewise,” Jack says, leaning against the counter. It makes Shitty snort, and Jack grins at him.

“Shut it, Zimmermann,” he says, and Jack would interrupt him again, tease him about the irony of that statement, but Shitty looks like he’s chewing on something. Jack waits.

After a moment, Shitty continues, “You seem happy, Jack. Well—” He waves a hand. “Happier.”

“I told you, Shits. I don’t kiss and tell.”

Silence reigns in the kitchen, the coffee just beginning to percolate. Jack waits, hands in his pockets.

“Oh my god! Something really did happen! Jack Zimmermann, you son of a—no, no. Your mother is a nice lady.” Shitty pushes up from the table and closes the distance between them to wrap Jack in a hug. “Damn it, Jack, was it Bitty? Please tell me it was Bitty, because it’s about time the two of you stopped doing whatever you’ve been doing and started something.”

Jack chuckles and hugs Shitty back, smells the salt and the outdoors clinging to Shitty’s collar and in his hair. He’s known Shitty most of his life. They’ve grown together, ridden and laughed and cried together. “Yeah,” he says, hands wide on Shitty’s back, voice muffled. “Yeah, Bittle and I…We…I like him, Shits. I like him a lot.”

Shitty pulls away, eyes suspiciously watery as he steps back to lean against the table. “Good,” he says. “Good. I’m thrilled for you, Jack. It’s about time, and Bitty is great.”

Jack thinks about that morning, about Bittle’s feet against his calves and Bittle’s breath against his neck, Bittle’s blond hair shining in the morning light when he saw Jack off out the back door.

“Yeah,” Jack says, smiling. “He really is.”

~

Puck’s coat shines darkly in the sun as Jack leans against the fence, camera hanging from his neck. The sky is blue above, the grass green below, and Jack knows he’s captured the moments he wants, the sure and smooth movement of Puck’s muscle beneath skin. He’ll develop the film later, add one or two pictures to his wall. Maybe he’ll give one to Bittle, something to hang on the wall above his breakfast table or above the counter where he kneads his dough. Maybe Bittle would hang it in the bakery for everyone to see, Puck—as much Jack’s heart as anything—a quiet declaration.

“He’s beautiful!”

Jack startles and turns to find Bittle approaching, hands in the pocket of his burnt red jacket. It fits perfectly, tailored to show off the width of Bittle’s shoulders and the trim line of his waist. His eyes are warm and dark, his hair bright. His cheeks pink from the walk and the wind. Without thinking, Jack raises his camera and takes a picture.

When he lowers it, Bittle is biting his lip, cheeks gone pinker. Jack’s own face feels warm. Bittle joins him at the fence, and Jack’s heart pounds.

Across the pen, Puck nickers and turns toward them. Jack’s used to the size of him, but Bittle’s breath catches as Puck approaches, his eyes widening.

Jack reaches out and rubs Puck’s forehead. “Bitty, this is Puck. Puck, Bitty.”

Puck nickers again, pushing at Jack’s hand, and Jack watches as Bittle glances at him, mouth pulled into a sideways smile, soft and full of something Jack thinks he’s getting closer to putting a name to. Then Bittle reaches out, hand pale and strong, and says, “Hi, Puck. Jack’s told me so much about you.”

Wind in his hair, Bittle at his side, Jack smiles.


End file.
